Changeling
by Beautiful Shiny People
Summary: He needed to change in order to ensure John's safety.


It started with the hair.

His fingers wove through the dark brown curls, tugging and pulling at strands until tears came to his eyes. Scissors laid on the sink edge, waiting to transform him into someone different; the hair dye sat unopened in the plastic bag on the toilet. Sherlock dropped his hands away from his hair, resting them against the lip of the sink and cocking his head at his reflection.

He could hear Molly puttering around her flat from the other side of the door; she cooed to her cats while she poured them another bowl of food.

Sherlock's eyes slid closed, and he rested his forehead against the mirror while his hand blindly reached out for the scissors.

Short, he needed it short. The detective could feel hair dropping onto his shoulders and becoming caught in the neck of his shirt; minutes passed before he dragged his head away from the mirror to observe his handiwork.

The dark brown curls had been reduced to a short hairstyle, something easily taken care of. Sherlock scowled at himself, watching the way his features contorted almost comically.

He reached for the hair dye, eyes quickly scanning the directions before a finger slid under the cardboard flap.

()()

The bathroom door opened, causing Molly to jump slightly at the sudden noise. Her reluctant guest shuffled into the living room, a towel draped over his newly dyed hair. The woman giggled at the pout dipping Sherlock's mouth. "Come here; you've got dye on your forehead." She took away the towel, glancing at the auburn stains before wiping at the detective's forehead.

Sherlock stared off into space, his expression sad. Molly watched him, her teeth gnawing on the inside of her cheek before she lightly patted the side of his face. "There we go." Grey-blue eyes flickered to hers briefly before he turned from her and retreated to the guest bedroom.

Molly flinched at the sound of the door slamming closed; a small sigh bubbled out of her mouth before she collapsed on the sofa, the dye stained towel still clenched in her hands.

()()

The flat was small, nothing like 221B. Sherlock found himself hating it, his anger and depression finally washing over him after the few weeks of being 'dead'. The landlord was a sour 40 year old who had a smoking problem and molested his children; Sherlock glared down at his nose at the man, signing the lease while Molly helped move in boxes.

The landlord eyed the petite woman, and Sherlock allowed himself a dark scowl, his eyes hardening to ice before the man looked at him and muttered about when rent was due, scurrying off to nurse a beer.

Molly wiped her hands on her jeans, surveying the cramped space with a worried expression. "Are you sure you'll be fine living on your own?" She watched as the tall man began to unpack his books, his shoulders relaxed but his movements tense.

"I'll be fine, Molly." She found herself momentarily floored by the tone of his voice, seemingly happy with the soft touch of an Irish accent. Grey-blue glanced over the dark blue shirt he had chosen to wear; his eyes were like an open book to her now, showing the depression in the iris with anger coiling around his pupils.

Molly fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, shifting from one foot to the other before she nodded. "Alright…you can text me—"

"I'll call you."

The woman nodded, glancing around the apartment once. That's right,_Sherlock_ preferred to text; Colin Byrne was a talker.

"Um, yeah. J-just if you need anything, alright?"

He hummed, going back to placing his books neatly on the unstable bookshelf. Molly gnawed at her cheek before turning to leave. "Molly." She paused at the doorway. Sherlock didn't turn to face her, instead he stroked the spine of a worn looking medical dictionary. "…thank you." He returned to unpacking quietly.

()()

The work was _boring_. Sherlock resisted the urge to stare out the office window, instead he scrolled through John's blog, his mouth pursed in displeasure at seeing the doctor hadn't posted anything new other than a link to his obituary.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning softly as he popped his back against the computer chair. "Um, Colin?" Sherlock mentally growled in his head, but he turned with a half smile to the charming woman leaning against his desk.

_Touching her hair. Dilated pupils, flushed face; obvious attention to her make up this morning. Burn on her finger, must of had an accident with a hot cup._

_Wait, what is she saying?_

He blinked and shook his head, giving the woman a slightly awkward smile. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I seem to be spacing today." She giggled (_too high, trying to appear younger than she is. I'll say reaching the forty mark. Thirty-seven at the latest._)

"I was wondering if maybe…you'd like to go for a drink later?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow briefly in surprise before schooling his features from haughty surprise back into character. He settled on embarrassed flattery and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Oh…er, that sounds…lovely." Really, why would he want to 'go out for drinks' with such an _obvious_ woman? _She's hoping for an intimate relationship. Preferably a long term one, though she's not adverse to affairs. Boring, dull._ Sherlock rested his hand on his desk, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side. "Might I make a suggestion?"

()()

The pub was nice, if a bit crowded. It had alright food (nothing like Angelo's), and it allowed him to smoke.

Sherlock took a long drag from his cigarette, half listening to the woman (what was her name? Something predictable…ah, yes, Brittany.) chatter beside him. She rested the tips of her fingers against his arm, openly flirting. He offered her a few vapid smiles and toneless chuckles; she played with her hair and commented on what a lovely shade of light brown his was.

Sherlock kept an eye on the door, watching customers both file into the pub and out of it. He held his breath whenever a short, male figure would appear behind the doors, but he released it bitterly when it turned out to be another man. _John, you're a creature of habit. It's a Thursday evening, according to your blog, you always go out with one of those idiots from the surgery on Thursday. _

Brittany blinked up at him, her brown eyes confused as she glanced towards the door. "Anyone you're expecting to see tonight?" Sherlock barely allowed his eyes to fall onto her, taking another drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. _Brows are furrowed, a slight pout to her mouth. Body language defensive. My, she's jealous of someone that may or may not exist._

He shook his head and laid his hand over hers. "My apologies…I've just been preoccupied with other things." She gave him a short look but smiled prettily, responding to his (what John had called on occasion) 'kicked puppy eyes', and launched into another story.

The bell to the pub door tingled as it opened, and Sherlock's gaze instantly swept to the doorway.

John leaned against his cane, speaking quietly to a short blonde woman who held a striking resemblance to him. She was holding his hand and laughing loudly at something while swaying drunkenly on her feet. Sherlock felt his mouth pull down into a scowl as Harry Watson stumbled to the bar, leaving John to limp after her.

They were a few barstools away; over the loud clamor of the pub and Brittany's incessant chattering, Sherlock listened to the Watson siblings. "Honestly, Harry, do you have to make such a spectacle of yourself?" John's soft growl was a balm against Sherlock's ears; he turned towards the two, blankly meeting Brittany's eyes as she blushed and asked him questions that he didn't need to think about.

Harry laughed loudly, slapping her palm against John's bad shoulder as he tried to take a drink out of the Guinness he had ordered. "Yer such a tight arse, Johnny! Loosen up!" Sherlock could see John's scowl. "Ya need ta ge' laid, I mean, 'sbeen how long since—"

"Harry. Shut up. Drink your beer." The doctor shoved the dark liquid towards the inebriated woman, holding his head in his hands as she happily slurped the beverage.

Sherlock watched John for a few moments more, guilt and sadness chewing at the edges of his sanity. He turned towards his date and laid out a few quid on the bar, quickly excusing himself before breezily walking past the doctor. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock was pleased to note John's gaze following him curiously.

()()

He made sure to be in the same place as John whenever he was able. Molly had phoned him to check up and tell him about the people he had left behind; Sherlock made sure never to talk about his own 'checking up', knowing that if he did she would scold him for being so reckless.

Perhaps it was reckless, but the detective was stewing in boredom! The place where he worked at was filled with simpletons; he made nice with them, being the charming Irish man they thought he was. Brittany had asked him out on a few more dates and he complied, taking her to restaurants he knew John frequented.

She had been suspicious of his spaceyness, asking him delicately about it, though one bashful smile laced with charm had smoothed over her doubts.

Months of boredom melted into a year of sameness.

Sherlock read John's blog dutifully, humming to himself in happiness when _That one man from the pub_ was ever mentioned. The detective made sure John had seen him one more time before he watched the doctor from afar. He was concerned that John was living with his sister; it seemed as though the doctor was falling into a neat pattern of alcohol addiction. _I feel like I'm spiraling, though I can't find myself to care._ read one saved blog Sherlock had found after hacking into John's account.

Sherlock tugged at a light brown strand of hair, his other hand touching the screen over John's profile photo. "You have no idea how I long to see you again." He breathed, closing his laptop and laying against his lumpy mattress.

()()

The plain black phone Molly had gotten him buzzed, pulling Sherlock out of the medical dictionary. _To John, Good luck in Uni! Love, Harry_

The detective eyed the phone, his brows dipped low as he reached for the device. He waited a moment before speaking into it, keeping up his cheery Irish brogue. "Hullo?"

"Ah, Mr. Byrne, pleasure to finally be speaking to you." Mycroft's voice floated through the ear piece. Sherlock leaned against his bookshelf, lazily flipping through dog-eared pages, eyes scanning the margins filled with John's scrawl.

"I'm sorry, but who is this?" He traced the faded pencil with a finger, shifting the phone from one ear to the other.

"Someone who would like to speak with you; isn't almost lunch time? Does Speedy's Cafe on Baker Street sound nice?" He could practically _hear_ the tight smirk in his brother's voice. Mycroft was not pleased; Sherlock grinned widely, shutting the book loudly.

"I'll be looking forward to it."

()()

Mycroft stared at him from across the table, his hands tightly folded and mouth pursed. Sherlock met his gaze head on, lazily stirring sugar into his coffee. "Why didn't you ask for help?"

The detective took a sip of his beverage, mulling over the answers in his mind. "I do not need your help." He had returned to his own voice, speaking lowly in order to be drowned out by the hustle and bustle of the cafe.

Mycroft slammed a hand onto the table, causing the salt and pepper shakers to rattle slightly. "Do not be an _idiot_. You may ask for help when it is required. Do not be a _child_." Sherlock stared emotionlessly at his brother before he turned away, a pout barely covering his face.

The older man took a deep breath and managed to calm himself. He loosely twined his fingers together and rested them on his lap, leaning against the cafe's plastic chairs. "It's…extraordinary that you were able to pass under my surveillance for so long, especially when only Ms. Hooper knows that you're still alive."

Sherlock hummed slightly, his chin resting on his hand. He traced patterns into the table top, mimicking John's handwriting for a moment before he sighed. "Why did you ask me here?"

His brother didn't answer, but merely flickered his gaze towards the doorway. Sherlock turned his head, eyes zeroing in on the limping blond struggling to open the cafe's door while he held his cane in one hand. "You've been following him."

John managed to open the door and was greeted by Mrs. Hudson. They embraced and John was shepherded to a seat by the large window. He looked tired but pleased to be speaking with the former landlady who seemed to be shoving biscuits into his weary hands.

Sherlock turned away from the doctor, his glare hardening as it landed on his slightly smirking brother. "What do you want?" The older man produced a thick manila folder wrapped in protective plastic. He slid it across the table using only the tips of his fingers. Sherlock snatched the parcel up, mouth nearly watering at the thought of a case.

"This is a list compiled of Moran's men and their positions in the city. Dr. Watson is still being tracked even though you're playing opossum." Sherlock nearly growled, but the look on Mycroft's face was grave. "I suspect that once you are rid of Moran, you may 'return to life' and sweep your dear doctor off his feet."

The older man stood smoothly, swiping away any creases on his charcoal black suit. He grabbed his umbrella and offered his younger brother a small smile. "Do keep in touch, Mr. Byrne."

Sherlock watched as Mycroft strolled through the crowd easily, stopping briefly to speak with a surprised looking John. John's smile towards his brother was slightly bright, and Sherlock felt his eyes narrow in jealousy. Mycroft patted the doctor's hand before he walked out of the cafe and into a long black car.

The detective watched as John shook his head, the small smile that had appeared on his face upon seeing Mycroft vanishing as he stared down at his hands. Sherlock took a deep breath and stood, stuffing the manilla envelope into the inside of his dark navy coat before making his way towards the cafe door.

He quickly calculated his path, watching as a few customers began to crowd even more; with a breath, Sherlock purposely knocked into John's arm, sending hot tea over the table and onto the doctor.

"What the _hell_?" John's voice nearly cracked with surprise as he stood up to avoid the hot mess. Sherlock reacted immediately, mouth forming empty apologizes as he grabbed a multitude of napkins.

The doctor grabbed some from him, helping wipe up the tea as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I watch where I was going." Sherlock glanced up at John from under his bangs, his expression worried but on the inside he was singing.

John stared at him with wide eyes, the dirtied napkins held suspended in his hand. His pupils shrank and expanded as they tried to focus on the man before him; his mouth was open in a slack 'o'. "S-Sherlock…?" The doctor breathed.

Sherlock straightened, gathering his napkins and the ones from John's hand. His fingers stroked the other man's fingers slightly; he offered the doctor a half smile, shrugging apologetically. "Er, sorry?" Guilt nearly stopped his heart as he watched John's face crumble minutely. The other man's eyes lost some of the hopeful sheen and he gave a hollow laugh.

"It's…it's okay mate."

The cafe bustled around them, filling the silence before Sherlock cleared his throat. He wanted to stay with John, talk to him and reveal the truth, but until Moran was taken care of, he would be unable to. "So…again, sorry about your tea." He waved a long fingered hand to the damp table and John's shirt. He winced in embarrassment, rolling a shoulder in a shrug. "I could buy you another?"

John watched his movements closely; Sherlock could nearly hear the gears grinding in the doctor's mind as he tried to pin point where he had seen him before (but he wouldn't allow himself to hope). John blinked at the offer but checked his watch, cursing under his breath. "Um, thanks but I'm kinda late." The doctor stood, grabbing for his cane and coat. Blue eyes locked with grey-blue for a moment. "It was nice meeting you—"

"Colin." John nodded, his brows barely furrowed in thought.

"_Colin_, right…yeah. Anyway, bye." He began for the door, his cane clicking against the tile of the cafe. The door jingled merrily to signal his departure; Sherlock watched as he hailed for a cab, barely glancing over his shoulder to meet the detective's gaze.

Sherlock walked back to his table, sitting down quietly and getting out the folder from his coat. "We'll meet again, John." He slid a finger under the protective plastic opening, pulling out the freshly copied papers from the folder. "All in time."

() **End** ()

_I really enjoy the idea that Sherlock didn't leave London; instead, he stayed and watched over John. _

Fun fact: _The name _Colin Byrne _means 'dark raven' pfff I amuse myself. _


End file.
